Once upon a field in the green, gassy center of our solar system, Coach gave a starting chance to some kid--some kid he called "Sun," which made all the other players kinda uncomfortable, to be honest.

Sun dreamed every night of making a name for himself in the big-time kahbang universe, but he was always a bit too round around the middle, slow in making his rounds, and at best had a hazy grasp of the rules of the game. His only pal was a molten pigskin, which Sun often failed to pass to the appropriate teammate at the appropriate time, often letting it slip from his his hands in a burned-fleshy gloop.

Tonight was going to be different, Sun just knew it. The stadium was packed to the nexus, Sun had just had a wintertime equinox and was therefore well-rested, and the opposing team was all dwarfs and black holes.

Hut one. Hut two. Hut three! "Run, Sun, run!," screamed Coach. Sun ducked and flickered and fell--just ten yards from where he started. "You did it, Sun, you made it! You gassed 'em good. You've made Coach real proud. You should be, too."

"Proud of what?" Sun asked.

"You're first sundown, Sun."

It's been a while, but the sun keeps shining.